18
Up close, the island is so much bigger than it first appeared.
In the boat, with the water violently churning around us, I set my focus on the lighthouse like a dancer uses a spotting point to keep from tipping over. All I wanted was to survive the currents and reach the safety of that creamy, luminous glow that beckoned to us like a ghost.
Now that we’ve arrived, that same structure appears stark and severe, like a finger raised in warning, cautioning us to turn away, go back to where we came from before it’s too late.
Only there’s nothing to go back to. Not for me.
“What do you think?” Braxton asks once we’re tucked inside a warm car, heading up a winding road, destined for the top.
I peer out my window at a barren landscape made entirely of dirt, rock, and not much else. I guess the winds are to blame for the absence of trees.
“‘Isolated’ is the first word that comes to mind.” I turn to see the glare from a streetlamp slice through the window and split his face down the middle. One half illuminated, the other darkened in shadow.
Instinctively, I know it’s the truest depiction I’ll ever have of him.
A second later, it’s over, the car’s dim, and Braxton’s tapping on an ultra-slim phone that looks to be a few generations newer than mine.
“It really is a fortress,” I say, my breath quickening, my stomach clenching with nerves. As we round the final bend and the building pops into view, I can’t help but gasp.
Crafted entirely of stone, the academy appears massive, unwelcoming, foreboding. When the front gate swings open, I rise off my seat, expecting to find it surrounded by a moat bursting with crocodiles or something.
“Does…Dracula live here?”
A ghost of a smile shades Braxton’s lips. “First impressions are often deceiving,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket as the driver stops the car before a large iron door. “I think you’ll be surprised by what’s waiting inside. C’mon.” We exit the car together and walk toward the entrance.
He presses his thumb against an electronic keypad and the door automatically opens. “This way.”
Braxton gestures toward a dimly lit tunnel, but I remain rooted in place, trying to figure out why the phrase on the plaque overhead is so familiar.
“Panta Rhei.”Braxton glances between the sign and me.
“What does it mean?” I ask, hoping for something that’ll jog my memory.
“Everything flows.” He shrugs, as though that explains it. As though this boy has ever explainedanythingto me.
Before I can push him for more, he hurries me through the tunnel to a beautiful moonlit garden that’s so unexpectedly lush, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
Within the calm shelter of thick stone walls, we cross a mosaic-tiled path bordered by towering palms and lavish beds of evening primrose, their delicate yellow faces slanting toward a sky littered with stars.
“It reminds me of the Tarot Garden.” I motion toward a glistening fountain bursting with water lilies and surrounded by whimsical sculptures of colorful six-headed snakes and other fantastical creatures.
“You’ve been to Italy?” Braxton turns in astonishment, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve shared something from my life that truly surprised him. And I gotta be honest, it feels pretty good to have the upper hand. Even if it’s trivial, it still counts as a win.
I wander toward a sculpture of a giant birdlike creature with a bright crescent moon standing in for a heart. “I did a paper on Niki de Saint Phalle for freshman year art class. She’s one of my favorites.”
Braxton relaxes, clearly relieved to confirm nothing slipped his due diligence. “This is one of many sculpture gardens,” he says. “Arthur is a collector.”
“Of art?” I run a tentative hand over the montage of shiny tile and grout.
“Of beauty.” He walks ahead. “Come on,” he says. “Time to meet the others.”